Into Oblivion
by theclarinetchica
Summary: After the initial period of mourning, John was fine. More than fine, actually. One year after Sherlock's funeral he broke. How can he rebuild himself when the most important part of his life is missing? Johnlock, post-Reichenbach AU. See inside for trigger warnings.


**A/N: **This story covers some dark issues including attempted suicide, self injury, psychiatric wards, and severe depression. If those subjects bother you in any way, please be aware of this.

This story would not be what it is today without my fantastic and patient betas **MrsNoggin **and **goodoldjames**. Thank you so much to both of you. The title is taken from _Handle with Care_ by Jodi Picoult

Into Oblivion

After the initial period of mourning, John was fine. More than fine, actually. He worked diligently, he dated here and there, and showed the world that while he missed his friend, he would not only survive, but thrive. For eleven months, John proved that he could keep going. That he was strong. He even convinced himself that he was alright.

One year after Sherlock's funeral he broke.

* * *

John had not always been the patient, caring person that he was as an adult. In secondary school he had been diagnosed with clinical depression. Even though it was an early diagnosis, John being only sixteen, it was a diagnosis nonetheless. Therapy and medication had helped him, but not before he started a dangerous relationship with self-injury. His favorite had been the razor blade; quick and easy to clean up after. He had, however, experimented, much like Sherlock would have. Scratching was not quite enough to break through the hopelessness; burning was too hard to disguise. Branding worked, but was too hard to manage. While each helped in their own way, he always returned to the blade. Never on his wrists, mind you, that was too hard to hide. His favorite place was on the ankle; no one ever looked there. Sometimes he had to cut high up on his leg because of his healing wounds, but it was always as close to his ankle as he could manage. However, with the combination of anti-depressants and therapy, he had eventually stopped. Now, only the faint lines of the scarring betrayed his constant mood, despite having stopped taking medication years before.

In fact, it was because of his tempestuous years as a teenager that he was as patient as he was now. He had learned that time would pass, unyielding, and that patience was the only way to get through it alive. Patience had showed him that moods change, and it could get better, though he hadn't always remembered that whilst inhabiting those dark places.

Before John had enlisted, his dark thoughts had returned. He hadn't hit his deepest low yet, but he knew he was heading that way. That was one reason he had signed up. When John had enlisted, many thought it was patriotism, for Queen and Country, that he was a brave man. In fact, it was mostly because he wasn't sure he wanted to return. Funnily enough, it was because of his near death experience that he had returned at all. His brush with death didn't change his fascination with it, but for a brief moment, he had wanted to survive.

A return to London and a chance meeting had brought about the best thing that had ever happened to him. Sherlock had swept him up like a hurricane, bringing with him the adrenaline that John had become addicted to while in Afghanistan. Even though they had run through the city at a breakneck pace for less than two years, it felt a lifetime for John. Sherlock had healed him emotionally and physically. Right before meeting Sherlock, John had started sliding back into depression, almost regretting his brief will to live while on the battlefield. When he had initially returned to London, he had needed to fight constantly- to find a flat, a job, a new life. Sherlock had helped, pulled him out of his low, showing John a world he had never imagined. He saw how brightly Sherlock could burn and how darkly he fell, sometimes in the course of one day. John knew that one of them would have to be responsible one, just as he knew that it would ultimately fall to him. So, he had left his depression behind, and he saw his life with Sherlock as a much better substitute. Even though they had known each other for a short time, it felt as if they had been friends forever. They complemented and completed each other- the head and the heart.

Then the fall happened. And Sherlock died.

* * *

A year after Sherlock's funeral, John sat in the sitting room, alone. He threw back a third glass of whiskey, having long abandoned his beer. He was truly drunk, inebriated beyond reasonable thought, slouched in his chair and reliving the worst day of his life, the day Sherlock had jumped. He played the movie over and over in his mind, every moment of that terrible day. He thought that time would have softened the memory, that it would have brought a haze to obscure the pain, but reviewing the moments for the first time in eleven months, he had found that his brain had preserved it perfectly. Every second, from the phone call that he received, to the agonizing slow motion of the fall, to the sound of his voice as he called out "_He's my friend_." As John relived that terrible day, he found himself drinking into the night, trading the glass for the bottle itself. As he drank the last few drops, he felt his heart diving, very much similar to Sherlock's fall. It was then that he broke.

At first no one noticed. John kept playing the part of the solid man, but it was just that, a part. He felt like an actor on the stage; putting on a mask to show the world. It had been a long time since he had donned the persona of "_okay_" while he withered inside, but it slid on like his favourite cream jumper. He numbly walked through his life, falling deeper and deeper into nothingness. People would always say that they were depressed, but it was just sadness. Yes, the pain may be real, but at least it was _there_. Depression was not just feeling sad, it was not feeling anything. John was empty inside, no joy, no pain, just nothing.

As he fell deeper, he found himself craving the blade. He fought it with everything he remembered from the arsenal he developed in therapy as a teen. While he struggled to recall those sessions, John found himself running out of options. The craving increased exponentially every day until he found himself giving in. He held the razor from the box cutter in one hand, staring at the faint scars on his leg. He would just press the blade against his skin. He _wasn't _going to actually cut. John was hoping that the feeling of the blade pressed down would stave off the need. As he sat there, just pressure against his skin, he realized that this was what addiction must feel like. Even though it was years later, he found himself needing the release that slicing into his flesh would bring. Briefly he wished he had never started, but the thought passed through his brain quickly. Tonight, he wasn't going to cut, he had made it through the need without actually drawing blood. John put the blade back in to the junk drawer in the kitchen, content that his immediate need had been met.

John made it through the next day, and the day after. He thought that the need would not resurface, that he was done. It was three days later, after a particularly bad day that the urge returned. He stepped through his doorway and was relaxing on the couch when it hit him. He lay still for several long minutes, too exhausted to move, which really had more to do with the emptiness inside rather than the difficulty of the day. It finally got to be too much and he found himself in the kitchen, removing the blade from the box cutter for the second time this week. He sat back down on the couch, leg folded up to expose his ankle. He tried pressing down like he had earlier, but it was just not enough.

The cuts started shallow. Just a quick flick of the wrist across his skin. Blood welled up unevenly across the wound, creating bubbles of crimson. Pulling at the skin, John watched as the blood flow increased. He swiped his thumb across the domes of blood, smearing it across his ankle. Another quick flick, another cut. Again and again, the rush of the pain helping the emptiness, he was relieved that he could still feel _something_, even if it was just a reaction to a physical stimulus. When John finally felt his craving satisfied, and walked to the bathroom to find a plaster. Instead, though, of returning the blade to the drawer, he left it on the end table next to his chair. He had no illusions about his need. He would have to do it again.

The next time, John cut slightly more. Still not enough to do anything other than bleed, but each time he had to go deeper and cut more to help stay the hollowness inside. He still held on to the mask, but others were beginning to see behind it. It was the people he didn't see often who noticed first. Molly noticed something was wrong during their bi-weekly cup of coffee. After talking about innocent things for a while, Molly voiced her concern.

"John, are you doing alright?"

Inwardly he heaved a sigh; lying was becoming more difficult with every day. He tried to sound normal, "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"You seem…different. Like before Sherlock-" she cut herself off, her face betraying her conflicted emotions. "Before he fell, he looked sad when you weren't looking. Like he knew something was coming that would hurt you, so he tried to hide it."

John had forgotten how perceptive Molly could be. Currently, though, he was more interested in what she had just admitted rather than how he couldn't seem to hide from her anymore. "He knew what was coming?"

"I don't know for sure," she said, a look of pain flashing across her features. Once, John would have dropped the subject because of how uncomfortable she looked. Now, though, he pressed her, his quest to understand was more important to him than her distress.

"Look, Molly, if you know something, I could really use a little hope right now," he confessed. It was the closest he had come to admitting that something was even wrong to someone other than himself.

"I don't really know anything. I just noticed him looking sad once when you weren't looking. Look, John, I can tell something is wrong," Molly tried redirecting his line of thinking away from Sherlock and his fall, "I understand if you don't want to talk, but just know that I'm here for you. Always."

"Thanks," he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Hey, I've got to get going."

John stood up, throwing some money on the table. He wasn't exactly sure how much he put down, but he knew it would be more than enough. John couldn't be out anymore, he had to get home. He said goodbye and walked away, leaving Molly to wonder what exactly was bothering the steadfast John Watson.

During the walk home, John couldn't stop thinking about the razor blade. He knew he had a problem, but he no longer had the will to really care about it. Rushing up the stairs, he sat down and began to release the confusion that had surfaced during his conversation with Molly. The cuts marched up his leg in a mixture of stages of healing. Some were still raw scabs while others had scarred, leaving a trail of raised pink skin. There were scars over scars. This time, he was bleeding slightly below his knee. The blood ran sluggishly, pooling at the start and finish of the wounds. John dabbed at the lines with a tissue, not trusting a plaster to completely cover the blood. He didn't want to stain his trousers. He laughed darkly at the idea that he cared more about his trousers than his actual leg. Even though he recognized the thought to be absurd, he didn't bother to challenge his thinking. It's not like the thoughts really mattered, anyway.

* * *

John's depression was crushing him. He had stopped going to work, even after a visit from Sarah. He had stopped answering his phone, so she had stopped by, afraid that something had happened. What she found was not comforting. Mrs. Hudson had let her in, with a quiet whisper of "Maybe you can pull him out of this. God knows _I've_ tried."

Sarah found John on the couch, television on. He was focusing on the program without really watching it. It was some ridiculous documentary about a man whose arms had exploded from taking too many steroids. John could feel Sarah's eyes taking him in, seeing how he hadn't shaved or showered in several days. He knew she had seen his depression, she had tried speaking with him weeks before, but he hadn't wanted to talk. He still didn't want to talk, but he supposed Sarah wouldn't leave until she was satisfied with his response.

"John," she called gently. He grunted his acknowledgement. Sarah dropped to kneel in front of him. "John, what's going on?"

"Nothing," he said flatly, "nothing at all."

She looked surprised to have gotten an answer, "John, you need to eat, you need to shave, and to tell you the truth, you need a shower."

He only turned over, looking much like Sherlock once had while pouting.

Sarah put a comforting hand on John's shoulder. "I'm only going to ask you this once, please. John, this is no way for you to live. We can get you help. There are some really great psychiatrists out there. I know a couple that might be a good fit for you. And what happened to your therapist? I'm assuming you stopped going. Look, I'm going to come over again tomorrow, and if I find you in this same place, I'm going to go get my boyfriend and he'll make sure you eat, shave and shower. I'm serious, John." He didn't acknowledge her, but she seemed content with his brief response. "Bye, John."

Thoughts trickled through his brain, he had no idea how slowly. If he based it on the television, he was having one complete thought approximately every half-hour. Sarah's visit had increased the frequency briefly, but with time, he was back to his 30 minute pace. He supposed he should get up and shower, but the process seemed insurmountable.

Several hours later, he had gathered enough energy to propel himself off the couch. He stumbled to the bathroom, shedding clothing as he went. Turning the shower on, he stood under the water, letting himself wash away down the drain. The water was ice cold, the shock of it felt fantastic on his skin. Suddenly, he turned it up all the way, reveling in the sudden pain from the temperature change. The cuts that marched up his leg burned in the hot water, the pain bringing a moment of clarity for John. He realized he didn't want to live like this anymore. And as he stood under the burning water, he began to make a plan.

* * *

John knew enough to not let anyone guess what he was planning. Even though he felt much lighter, he knew he had to still act depressed. When Sarah stopped by the next day, with her boyfriend, she was happy to see he had at least showered and shaved. She stood over him for every bite of a small meal, and he ate enough to satisfy her. With a promise to visit the next day, Sarah left. John puttered about the flat, tidying up more than he had in months. Dishes were done, clutter straightened, and trash taken out. He stopped in to see Ms. Hudson, to apologise.

"John!" she called, surprised to see him. She pulled him into a tight hug. He breathed in her sent, a combination of chamomile and baby powder.

"I'm sorry," he said into her shoulder. She was rubbing his back in small circles, a reassuring gesture from a mother-like figure.

"It's fine, John, it's all fine." They were both silent for a few minutes, comforting each other. John soon felt awkward, though, and he made his excuses, returning up to the silence of his flat.

He was ready.

* * *

Sherlock's voice_….'John, John'… _This must be what dying feels like. He drifted in and out, sometimes seeing Sherlock, sometimes just white. There was a siren_. Why?_ He heard Lestrade_…'Jesus Christ'_… He was cold, so cold… Sherlock again, was he crying?... '_He's going into cardiac arrest. Get the AED.' _

And then everything went black.

* * *

John woke up slowly, coming out of his foggy dream. Sherlock had been there – was he dead? He didn't _feel_ dead, but he'd never actually _been_ dead before. Yes, he had a brush when he had been shot, but this felt different. He heard gentle snoring, and turned his head slightly toward the sound.

_I _must_ be dead,_ John thought, looking at the man sitting there. He had to be dead, because how else could he be looking at his best friend, his _dead_ best friend. Sherlock sat in an uncomfortable looking chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. His head dipped forward, chin resting on his chest. John shifted, and Sherlock woke with a start. The look on his face was one of a man who had lost everything. Seeing John looking at him, his expression changed to one of astonishment. He jumped up and was at John's side in one stride.

"Am I dead?" he croaked, his throat dry. Sherlock grabbed a glass of water from the bedside tray and held it to John's lips. He drank deeply, draining the glass.

"Very nearly," was Sherlock's reply.

John loved the sound of his voice. He had to shake himself out of the bliss of the velvet tones and focus on the actual words.

"Nearly?" John asked, confused. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"I…" His voice caught as he suddenly recalled what he had done. "I remember enough."

Sherlock pulled the chair forward, slipping his hand under John's. The younger man cradled John's hand gently, giving him the ability to pull away. "I almost lost you tonight," his shaking voice betrayed his calm exterior, "I couldn't bear it if I had."

"But what are _you_ doing here?" John's brain felt fuzzy, but he was pretty sure Sherlock shouldn't even be alive, yet he was sitting at his side.

"There will be more time to explain later," Sherlock dismissed, running his thumb along the line of John's first finger. John found it distracting, but he wasn't sure he wanted Sherlock to stop. "I really should ring for the nurse, they asked me to call them if you woke up."

John heard a slight hitch at the word_ if_ and he briefly wondered if it had been a closer call than he had initially thought. Sherlock leaned over John to push the call button, then settled back down.

The nurse appeared quickly, checking John's vitals. She changed the IV fluids and left to tell the doctor that John was awake. They waited in silence, but it was not uncomfortable; both men were glad to be in each other's company. Sherlock had not let go of John's hand, now rubbing his thumb in small circles by his thumb. The doctor finally appeared, standing over John's bed with her clipboard.

"Hello John," she said, "I'm Dr. Farrand. I'll be taking care of you tonight. Your vitals seem to be in order. How are you feeling?"

"Fuzzy," he admitted.

"That's to be expected. Do you remember why you're here?"

"I remember some."

"Well, the short version is that you attempted suicide," she said briskly, "Your friend here is the only reason you're alive. It was touch and go for awhile, you lost a lot of blood. You're in Intensive Care, but we'll be moving you to another ward once you've been cleared." John looked down for the first time, seeing the bandages on his wrists and ankles. He should have known this was coming, putting it together. The stay in the hospital, the bandages, the vague memories all added up to mean a stay in the psychiatric ward.

"How long will he have to stay there?" Sherlock voiced the question that John was thinking. John looked at him gratefully, glad that he didn't have to ask when he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"That is going to be up to the behavioral unit staff. You'll be here for one more day, at least. We need to make sure you're going to be alright before you are discharged from this ward. Any more questions?"

"I think I'm good for now. Thank you." John was beginning to feel tired, the effort of being awake and weak was wearing on him. Dr. Farrand nodded and said her goodbyes, promising to stop by later and John turned to Sherlock, "Ok, I think I've been patient enough. What happened? Why are you here?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, his face showing a moment of pain, before his calm exterior returned, "About a week and a half ago, I received a call from Molly. She said she was concerned about you, but was at a loss of what to do. I was almost finished with taking down Moriarty's web. I quickly disposed of the last man, and returned. That was five days ago. I was going to come see you, but when I observed you, I immediately became concerned. You were obviously depressed, and I didn't know how my appearance would alter your mood. The next day, I noticed a change, and I knew what that meant. I wasn't sure of your exact plan, but I could tell you were going to try something," Sherlock looked at John, the fear of his potential loss apparent in his expression. "When I didn't see you through the window of the flat for a couple hours, I expected the worst. I rushed over, and found you in the bathtub, lying in warm water, blood everywhere. I felt for a pulse, found a faint one, and called for an ambulance. You had sliced your wrists and both legs. You lost quite a lot of blood, and your heart stopped at one point. They have given you several transfusions and you've been in a coma for three days. I haven't left your side since."

John held no joy in deducing correctly about how he tried to kill himself. He couldn't recall exactly, but he did have flashes of what had happened. Sherlock only confirmed his guess as to his method. John turned his hand over, threading Sherlock's fingers through his own, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm exhausted," John admitted, "I think I need to sleep for awhile."

"Of course. I'll leave."

"No- please don't. I…I'm-" John tried to find the right words, but Sherlock was already nodding, he understood what John needed. The nurse came in for one last check before her shift ended.

"You should get some rest," she advised, "You've had a rough couple of days." John nodded his agreement. "And sir, you'll have to leave, it's past visiting hours." The look Sherlock gave the poor nurse could have peeled paint.

"I'm sure that if you actually look in the files, I am permitted to stay," he said, sounding suitably haughty for a Holmes.

Unfazed, the nurse double checked John's chart, "Sorry sir, it seems you have been given an exception. I'm sure you understand."

Sherlock gave her one of his _'why do I have to deal with morons'_ smiles as she turned and left. John's eyes were already closing, the need for sleep greater than his need to stay with Sherlock.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" he asked.

"Of course. Now sleep."

John tossed and turned, skirting the edges of his sleeping hell. He woke with a start, eyes searching for Sherlock in the semi-darkness of his hospital room.

His hand wiped the sweat of John's brow, "Shhh…. It was just a nightmare."

John's fevered eyes found Sherlock's, his hand grasping at the younger man's, "Please," he pleaded as he shifted to one side of the small hospital bed.

Sherlock understood perfectly. He curled himself around John, his hand resting over John's heart. John began to drift off again, feeling safe in Sherlock's arms. The nightmares did not return.

* * *

Two days later they moved John to the Behavioral Health wing. He insisted he could walk, but a stubborn nurse and Sherlock got him in the wheelchair. With a Sherlock-level pout, they wheeled John across the hospital, the bandages on his wrists and legs embarrassing him. He felt as if everyone was looking at him, judging him from the white bracelets that stood out against his skin. Wheeling in to the locked wing, the nurse completed the transfer paperwork.

"Hello John," said his new nurse, sticking out his hand, "I'm George. You're going to be in room 13, bed A- it's the one by the window." Sherlock followed George down the hallway, pushing a sulking John. "Go ahead and get settled. Once we get your schedule fixed with your therapy times, I'll bring it down. We'll be ready for lunch in half an hour, so you'll have a little time to say your goodbyes," he focused his attention to Sherlock, "You can come back tomorrow during visiting hours, 1 to 2 in the afternoon."

"If you look at the chart, I think you'll see I am allowed to stay," Sherlock said, looking down his nose at the nurse.

"Not here," George did not wilt under the glare "This wing follows strict visitation rules in order to allow our patients to heal. I believe it was your brother here earlier trying to procure you access, but he eventually saw how our schedule would benefit John. It will get him out of here sooner, and I'm sure that's what you want for him."

Sherlock thought about what he said, reviewing his knowledge of psychiatric healing, and realized that George was right. He nodded regally, agreeing silently to respect the rules.

"Also, John is allowed to wear his own clothes. No shoes with laces, slippers are always a good idea. You can bring them and drop them off at the desk at the front of the wing. It's a good idea to pack as if you were going on holiday- bring him a toothbrush, deodorant, stuff like that, no razors, though." George promised to bring down John's schedule, and finally left Sherlock and John alone.

John made a face as he thought about the reason they had such rules. It wasn't enough that he had to be here, but to lose simple things such as being able to shave on his own was demeaning.

"I wonder if my lack of practice has decreased the intensity of my glare," Sherlock wondered, drawing a brief laugh from John. Suddenly, he pulled John into a tight hug. "John, I don't think you realize how close I came to losing you," he said quietly. Sherlock's fingers came up to thread through John's hair, his other arm wrapping around John's waist. John had not realized how scared Sherlock had been, but the grip he had on John conveyed some of his fear. Frankly, John was enjoying the embrace more than he probably should have for a platonic friendship, but he was beyond caring about things like that.

"Sherlock, I'm going to be fine," he said, his face buried in Sherlock's shoulder. He pulled away slightly, thinking about his captivity. "I'll be out of here soon." They stood like that for a while longer, and were interrupted by a knock on the open door. An older man stood there, an apologetic look on his face.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, "I guess you're my new roommate. I'm Ian," he shook John's hand. "It's lunchtime. I'll show you where we eat."

"Bye, Sherlock," John squeezed him one last time before untangling himself from his grip, "I'll see you soon."

"I'll bring by some of your things later," Sherlock promised, catching his hand and gripping it tightly, as if he were afraid to let go of John. Then he swept suddenly out of the room, leaving Ian and John behind.

"Boyfriend?" Ian asked.

"No, best friend….it's complicated."

"Well, let's go get something to eat."

* * *

John fell into the routine of being under constant supervision. His mornings began with a trip to the front counter for morning meds – a combination of psychiatric drugs meant to lift his depression. After breakfast, he had group therapy. His group consisted of men and women his age who were dealing with depression. Most had attempted suicide at some point in their life, and the rest had come close. They avoided talking about their actual attempts, focusing instead on why they chose to end their lives and coping strategies each person had tried throughout their lives. It was simultaneously helpful and obnoxious to be there. He wasn't sure he liked sharing the personal parts of his life with strangers, and he knew some of the coping techniques he knew would never work for him, but knowing he wasn't alone in this helped.

Following group, he had art therapy. At first, he had scoffed at the idea that creating art would be helpful, but he had discovered that it was one way he could release his emptiness and pain. He painted, threw clay to make a pot, worked on mosaics, a wide variety of creative outlets. He felt slightly ridiculous, but it really did help distract himself from the difficult emotions, and lack of emotions, he had been feeling.

He had individual therapy every other day, which really did nothing for him. This was always followed by the visit to the psychiatrist where they talked about his mood and possible medication adjustments. He was given more free time than he thought he would be, so he read, watched the television and played board games with his new acquaintances. Generally, he was incredibly bored.

His favorite part of the day came immediately after lunch – visiting hours. Sherlock came every day. He sometimes brought clothes, including John's favorite cream jumper, or a book. Sometimes it was just a newspaper, and sometimes a case file. Once he brought a slice of cake that they shared, but he never came empty handed. They talked about innocent things, never touching on the reasons John was in there. John talked about his art, they laughed about the stories Sherlock brought him from the Yard, they talked over the small cases Sherlock was consulting on. John favorite part of Sherlock's visits, however, was the hugs. Sherlock would hold John tight, as if he was afraid of him drifting away. John breathed in Sherlock's scent – a unique combination that he could never quite place. Sherlock's touch was healing him almost as much at being in the hospital.

One week after he was involuntarily checked in, they moved him out of the secure ward. He was given more freedom, including the ability to move from room to room without a supervisor. John had a new roommate, a boy who couldn't have been more than eighteen, named Andrew. He was outgoing, but also clearly depressed. John found himself empathizing with the younger man, and they found themselves talking during their free time.

John dutifully attended all of his therapy sessions, and even participated on occasion. He knew that the more healed he appeared, the sooner he'd get out. And he _was _healing, in body and mind. The scars on his wrist were still tender, but the scars on his legs weren't painful anymore. Sherlock continued to visit, and those visits went a long way with John's healing. In one-on-one therapy, they had delved past the superficial reasons for John's attempt and were exploring his relationship with Sherlock.

"How do you feel about his return from the dead?" the therapist asked one day. John sat in silence for almost two minutes, trying to focus his complicated thoughts.

"I'm obviously overjoyed. Definitely surprised and grateful – had he not come back, I would have died," John admitted, "but I'm also angry."

"What about?"

"I'm angry that he left me alone, and that he convinced me that he was dead. I mean, I know it has something to do with destroying Moriarty's web, but we haven't really talked about it."

"Why not?"

"I- I'm not sure I'm ready."

"John, you're never going to be ready. It's going to hurt, but sometimes you need to face the pain head on. It's like a plaster, you just have to rip it off. It hurts, but the pain goes away quickly. When is he going to visit you next?"

"Tomorrow. He comes every day."

"I think you should talk to him about it."

"I think it'll take more than an hour, though."

"I'll make arrangements. You can use my office, if you like. You'll be alone, obviously, but you'll need a place where you can talk without interruption."

John was not sure he was ready for this, but if she thought he could… well, maybe it was worth a try.

* * *

John and Sherlock sat on the shabby couch in the therapist's office, each of them tucked into a corner so they could face each other. Sherlock's gaze flitted around the room, his mind racing. He knew the nature of his friendship with John hinged on this conversation.

"I'm assuming you want to talk about my death," Sherlock deduced, reading John's face and looking at the room.

"Yes," he answered, "My therapist thinks I need to understand, and I… agree with her. Why, Sherlock?" John's face expressed hurt, as open as ever.

So Sherlock explained. He explained about webs, and Moriarty's threat. He spoke of how he hadn't been sure if his fall would actually kill him. He talked of traveling the world, slowly eliminating the elements of Moriarty's organization, of dirty hostels, of days without food. As he spoke, his hand found John's, Sherlock's thumb drawing circles on his palm. It was more distracting than John would like to admit.

As Sherlock explained, the hurt that John had been feeling dissipated. Yes, he was angry, but as he recognized the emotion, he tried letting it go. If John had heard his story two months ago, he probably would have reacted differently, but he had changed. The months of being fine, the break, and the rehab had taken his personality and intensified it. John felt more patient, more caring, more _John_ than he had felt since before Afghanistan. He knew that it would take awhile, but Sherlock's confession helped him to begin moving on.

It took almost three hours for Sherlock to explain what had happened over the past year. When he finally finished, they sat in silence – John contemplative, Sherlock relieved. Since he had pulled John out of the tub, he felt the need to explain what had happened. While he was traveling, eliminating the threats, he could only think about returning to John. He was the reason Sherlock was able make it through those dark days, and now he was home, almost ready to move him back to the flat.

Sherlock still held John's hand loosely, unable to keep his finger from drawing patterns on John's palm. He had been nervous about having this conversation, though he would never show it outwardly. What if John didn't forgive him? Throughout his explanation, Sherlock had been watching John carefully, trying to deduce his emotions. He had found some anger, some resignation, and quite a bit of acceptance. He knew John had not forgiven him yet, but he hadn't dismissed Sherlock, either. With this knowledge, Sherlock's brain began to slow down, until it was completely focused on the sensation of John's skin against his. His thoughts slowed for only a minute before they raced along John's recent experiences, and he began to really think about how close he had come to losing him. It was the first time in years that he allowed himself to feel so strongly, and it scared him. A tear leaked from Sherlock's eye and John reached forward and brushed it away with his thumb. Sherlock grabbed his wrist gently, careful of the scars there, they would be tender for a little while longer, and held John's hand to his cheek, reveling in the touch.

"John, I can't wait until you get out of here," he confessed, "I just- it feels empty in the flat without you."

"I'm hoping it won't be much longer."

* * *

It took another week for John to graduate to outpatient treatment. He had to agree to attend group therapy twice a week for another month, and to see a therapist and a psychiatrist regularly. Sherlock had to sign paperwork and go to a short class on how to help John readjust. Then he was ready to go home to the flat, and to Sherlock. This experience had been overwhelming, and he knew he wouldn't be able to properly look at it while surrounded constantly. He looked forward to his own bed, his own room, to the cluttered sitting room, even to the experiments in the kitchen. It was everything he associated with home, he had just forgotten it when Sherlock had died.

As soon as he walked through the door of 221 Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson fell on him, sweeping John into a tight hug, tears flowing down her face.

"Shhh…" he tried comforting her, "It's all right now." Mrs. Hudson pulled back slightly and hit him lightly on his good shoulder.

"Don't you _dare_ do anything that stupid ever again!" she chastised.

"I promise," John said.

She squeezed him one last time and disappeared into her flat. Sherlock and John climbed up the seventeen steps and stopped in the doorway. He took a deep breath and stepped in, Sherlock's hand a comforting presence on the small of his back. The last time John had entered 221b he had been ready to end his life.

The flat was slightly tidier than usual, Sherlock must have tried, but housekeeping had never been his strong suit. He guided John over to his chair, and left to make a cup of tea.

"Sherlock, you don't have to take care of me. I can do it myself."

John was ignored, but unsusprised by it. Once Sherlock got an idea in his head, he could be exceedingly stubborn. A mug of steaming tea was set on his end table, and Sherlock folded himself on the couch. They both sat in silence, but it was a comfortable one, both were just happy to be home.

Sherlock broke the silence first, "Are you hungry? I don't think we have much food here, but we can always order takeaway."

"Not really," John's depression had severely diminished his appetite, and even though he was feeling somewhat better, eating was still a problem.

"Let me rephrase that. You _will_ be eating. Now, what would you like?"

The irony of the situation was not lost on both men. John sighed, resigned again to Sherlock's stubbornness. They ordered takeaway, and half an hour later they found themselves in their seats, food in front of them, watching crap telly. John scooped up a forkful of Thai noodles and stared at them.

"Eating generally works best if you put the food in your mouth."

John gave a small smile at Sherlock's quip and forced himself to take a bite of the noodles. Every mouthful was difficult to swallow, but he could tell that Sherlock was watching him over every bit, so he dutifully ate.

The afternoon after he returned to the flat, Sherlock flew up the stairs, carrying the shopping. This was one of the tasks he insisted on doing, despite John's protests that he was fine.

"John!" he called.

John could hear him stamping through the flat, methodically going through each room looking for him. He stood perfectly still, rooted to the spot. John heard Sherlock as he walked into the bathroom, but he couldn't turn his head. Staring at the bathtub, in only his pants, he supposed he should feel embarrassed. Instead, the sight of the tub seemed to freeze him completely. He had no idea how long he had been there. Though he couldn't see Sherlock, John felt him halt. He could even picture the look on Sherlock's face, one of fright for his friend, scared that John seemed to be stuck. He felt a large hand slip into his, directing him gently away. John felt the familiar touch of his bathrobe as it slid over his shoulders, automatically directing his arms through the sleeves.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said quietly, leading him out into the sitting room and onto the couch. The two sat close to each other, still holding hands. John was staring off into space, stuck inside that tiny room. Sherlock seemed to understand that he needed silence, a chance to thaw from the cold that had seized him.

"Where did the blood go?" John asked, still looking straight ahead.

"I made sure it was completely gone."

John let the admission sink through his frozen exterior, amazed that someone cared enough to do such a miserable task. John leaned over, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John loosely, comforting him silently. John wasn't sure how long they sat like that as he thought about the bathroom and what had happened.

"I think I'm ready to try again," John broke Sherlock's hold, sitting up and taking a moment to collect himself before he showered. This time he had no problems.

"John, can you bring me the notebook sitting on the desk?" Sherlock called from the kitchen the next morning. John picked up the book and walked the short distance, stopping suddenly in the doorway. He realized that it was his first time in here since he had returned as he stared at the table, frozen for the second time.

"John?" Sherlock asked, glancing over at his friend.

"I was… remembering."

"Remembering?" he prompted.

"What happened to the note I left?"

Sherlock sighed, "I burned it."

"Why?"

"Because I just couldn't bear to read it anymore. Every night you were away, I read your apology. Your admission that you couldn't do it anymore, that you had given up. And it tore me apart. I knew that I had caused you that pain. It was my fault. I wanted to look at you and see _you_, not the pain that I had caused you. So I burned it. I didn't think you'd want to see it, anyway."

John blinked, surprised by his honesty- the Sherlock he once knew would not have been so thoughtful. "I suppose not." He handed Sherlock the journal, returning to the couch. He turned the television on, but his eyes were focused elsewhere, remembering the words he had written. He was glad Sherlock had burned it, he decided, it was just one more memory that he would rather not have.

Even as John became used to being back in the world outside the hospital, Sherlock insisted on taking care of him. Not as someone would if he were physically ill, by doing everything for him, but he was helping more around the flat than he had since John moved in. John had always thought that he would love it if Sherlock helped out, but instead it felt exceedingly strange. He insisted on making sure John ate, even going so far as to eat himself. John was surprised at how good Sherlock was at cooking, but he explained that it was like science, the way different things react with each other to create different flavors. He helped make sure the flat was clean. Well, as clean as it was ever going to get with all of the clutter. He made sure John was taking care of himself. At first, Sherlock's insistence to help unnerved him. It was so different from the Sherlock he was used to, but John also enjoyed the feeling of being loved, of having someone who cared whether he did these things or not. He knew Sherlock was watching for the signs that he was regressing, but John was healing more the longer he was back in the flat.

Initially, John missed the hugs he received from Sherlock when he was in the hospital. One day, John was sitting on the couch, watching some stupid show, when Sherlock flopped down, long legs settling on John's lap.

"Oi," he exclaimed, "I'm sitting here!"

"Yes, you are," Sherlock smirked. John allowed himself one more glare before he resigned himself to the invasion of his personal space.

Over time it became a frequent position for the two men. Sherlock would appear, lounging over John. John would sit on his side of the couch, sometimes watching television, sometimes reading a book. Sometimes his hand would appear on Sherlock's exposed ankle, tapping out rhythms and drawing patterns.

Sherlock would lie there, thinking about whatever problem he was facing that day. One day it would be a case, the next day would be his latest experiment. Sometimes it would be the feeling of John's fingers against his leg. Sherlock found that problem the most interesting; he never knew how John would answer if asked about it. Part of his appeal to Sherlock was that he was never able to predict John, there were so many facets to this complex man. While John had been in the hospital, Sherlock had begun to think about a new possibility, and all the data he had collected pointed him to one conclusion- he loved John Watson.

He lay with his legs across John one rainy afternoon, John lost in his book, Sherlock deep in thought about his emotions. He wasn't sure exactly how to proceed. Contrary to popular opinion he was not a virgin, but he had always been the one pursued, not the one doing the pursuing. He didn't think a direct invitation would work with John. His usual relationships usually included dating, romance and things that Sherlock was not an expert in. John would probably be amenable to a relationship, but he was often surprised by how John reacted. It was one of the things Sherlock loved best about him, but now it was incredibly frustrating. He hated not being able to predict him, it left too much to chance. So instead he concocted an experiment, one that would hopefully confirm his hypothesis that John had feelings for him, too.

* * *

He started out simply, by just increasing his touch. Sherlock convinced himself that this was not simply for him, but it was a stretch even in his own mind. He would walk by John, running his fingers down the arm rested on the back of the sofa. He helped John into his coat, stroking his hand down John's shoulders. He kept gradually raising his contact with John, not quite enough for him to notice anything strange, but rather for him to subconsciously recognize Sherlock's affection and possible intentions.

Over the next few days, he increased the amount of time spent to get John to notice him. Sherlock spent more time sprawled across John's lap, once even putting his head rather than his feet. John threaded his fingers through his hair, playing with Sherlock's curls. He acted as if he didn't notice the change, but Sherlock knew him better than that. The fact that John didn't mention anything was certainly food for thought. Was he verbally not discussing the change because he didn't mind it, or was he not talking about it because he saw it simply as another quirk of Sherlock's? Not for the first time, he wished he could read John's mind, to help him understand.

Nine days into what he privately called _"The Seduction of John,"_ Sherlock stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, walking purposefully slowly through the sitting room to grab his phone before heading back to his room to change. He smiled to himself as he observed John on the couch, watching his every move. John's eyes traveled up and down his body, resting briefly on the towel slung low on his hips before quickly looking back at the newspaper he was reading. Sherlock disappeared into his room, changing into his usual dress pants and button down shirt.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked.

John folded his paper and stood up. Sherlock grabbed his coat and helped him into it, running his hand down John's arm quickly. It was just a light contact, his small touches had become natural for Sherlock over the last week. Then he shrugged into his own coat and followed John down the stairs.

When they reached Angelo's, they sat at their usual table by the window. The conversation remained innocent, discussing the case Sherlock was working on. John listened, enjoying the feeling of normality. It was the first case he had really paid attention to since his hospital visit. Sherlock had not taken him to the crime scene, but John was ready to get back to running through the night, chasing down leads. Their food arrived, and both men ate without really tasting their food. They were both too involved with their discussion, John asking the questions Sherlock had missed. He always loved how John asked things that led him to his deductions. They finished their meal and left, walking down the street, with John probing Sherlock for more information.

Suddenly, Sherlock swept John up into a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're home," he said softly, "I've missed you."

He let go suddenly, leaving John to catch up as he strolled down the street. As he reached Sherlock, his brain thought of a thousand different questions. What was Sherlock's game? Why was he doing this? What did it mean? He remembered the night in the hospital when Sherlock curled around him, he remembered the feeling of Sherlock's finger drawing patterns on his palm, he remembered how Sherlock was willing to give his life so John would live. All of these thoughts led in one direction, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, surveying the kitchen table and its assortment of scientific equipment. He supposed he should clean up some of the older experiments. He'd have to start by making sure everything was recorded properly. John appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Sherlock, what's been going on with you?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, "What do you mean?"

John raised an eyebrow in response. He stepped over into Sherlock's personal space and the younger man backed up, hitting the kitchen counter and leaning against it.

"Look, John-"

"No," John interrupted gently, but firmly, "I am _fine._ You don't need to treat me like a porcelain doll. I may be a little broken, but you are the one who is putting me back together," John placed his palm over Sherlock's heart, "You are the one who is healing me, in ways that I never imagined before… before all of this happened."

John looked up at Sherlock, and he had finally had enough. He reached up, grabbing Sherlock's shirt collar, and pulled him down for a bruising kiss, not coordinated at all. However, if he was only going to get this once chance to kiss Sherlock, he was going to try and make it spectacular. He angled his lips, nipping at Sherlock's until he opened his mouth, allowing access. A part of John's brain yelled happily '_He's kissing me back!' _but he pushed the thought away, not wanting to get his hopes up. He finally tried pulling away, but Sherlock put his hand to the back of John's neck, not allowing him to move.

"No," he whispered, pulling John up, reconnecting their lips. His kissed John gently, caressing slowly. The kiss had turned from something urgent to a kiss so sweet that time stood still for a minute. They finally separated, both slightly shocked as to what had just happened.

"What, "John asked, "was that?"

"I believe that was what is called a kiss," Sherlock answered, but there was no trace of the irritation that would normally have coloured his voice.

John grinned, "Fair enough, that is what I asked. Why?"

"John, you are aware that _you_ were the one who kissed _me_, yes? I think I should be the one asking why."

"You kissed back," John replied. Sherlock raised one eyebrow, refusing to answer John's question until his own was answered. John sighed, he supposed he should have thought this through more. "Look, I _know_ you've been teasing me. Trying to do… something."

He moved back, leaning against the kitchen table. Sherlock suddenly missed the feeling of John pressed against him and stepped forward. They were still not quite in contact, but it wasn't the distance it had been.

"And what if I have?" Sherlock smirked. "Been trying to do something, that is."

John took a deep breath, and plunged ahead, "Then I suppose I'd have to do something back." He captured one of Sherlock's large hands, using it to pull him closer, fitting him between his legs.

Sherlock leaned down, running his nose down soft skin behind John's ear, "What exactly do you plan on doing about it?"

John turned his head, catching Sherlock's lips with his own, standing up to push Sherlock back until he hit the kitchen counter again.

Sherlock supposed he could get used to this wonderful feeling of being trapped by an aroused John. They fought for dominance of the kiss, each trying to tell the other one what they were afraid to say out loud. Suddenly, Sherlock shoved John back, pushing him backwards toward his bedroom.

John smiled as they fell on to the bed, leaning down to capture Sherlock's lips with his own. They lazily kissed, wanting to take their time; there was no rush, and John wanted to explore every inch of him. Everything felt incredibly clear and that sensation was almost overwhelming. He felt the gentle press of Sherlock's fingers under the hem of his jumper, the texture of his shirt, the taste of his mouth. Moving down his neck, he nipped at Sherlock's collarbone, earning a moan. He traveled up, catching his ear and nibbling on his earlobe, running his tongue along the shell of his ear.

"You are perfect," he murmured recapturing Sherlock's earlobe and pulling it into his mouth. He shifted back to his lips, biting down gently, then lapping at the sting. John worked his way down, placing wet kisses as he undid the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. He slid the shirt from his shoulders, peppering kisses along one side. Sherlock squirmed, the slight contact not quite enough. He needed to be closer to John, to express the emotions he had difficulty saying out loud. Sherlock wrapped his long legs around him and rolled them over.

"My turn," he grinned, a hungry look on his face. He ghosted fingers along the skin under the hem of John's jumper and was surprised when he giggled.

"Ticklish?" Sherlock laughed and ran his hands along John's stomach, pulling his jumper over his head. He sat up, drinking in the sight of a very aroused John, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. John felt self-conscious as Sherlock looked at him, he knew that he was no longer in his prime. Sherlock's eyes took in every detail, deducing his mix of nervousness and anticipation.

"Beautiful," he whispered, leaning down to press kisses along John's jawline, working his way down first to his collarbone, then taking in his sensitive nipple. John bucked and Sherlock's fingers came to gently pinch at his other side. He swirled his tongue, biting gently down and then switched his attention, catching his other nipple and sucking gently.

"Fuck," John gasped, fingers threading through curly locks and pulling slightly. Sherlock blew gently across each side of his chest, making him shiver agreeably. John wondered what he had done to deserve the attention of this brilliant man. He lost his train of thought as Sherlock licked a path down his stomach, ending by running his tongue along the line of John's jeans. Long fingers made quick work of his trousers and Sherlock palmed John's erection, gently moving over the delicate material of his underwear. John started at the feeling on his already sensitive cock, craving more, until Sherlock slid his pants down, trailing his tongue up from root to tip. John could do little more than gasp, the sensation almost too much. He stubbornly pulled Sherlock up into a kiss; it had been too long and he wanted to make this last. He could taste himself on Sherlock's lips and he brought his hands up, cupping his face and slowing the kiss.

"Now this just isn't fair," John said against Sherlock's throat, "you seem to have too many clothes on."

Startling a laugh from him, John rolled him onto his back, arms supporting him over Sherlock's head. Sherlock took the opportunity to latch back on to his chest, John's arms almost giving out at the overwhelming electricity that coursed through his body. He pushed back, removing himself from the clever mouth and ran his hands along the sides of Sherlock's body, ending at his waist. As John's fingers worked at his belt, he bit his lower lip, closing his eyes as he anticipated what was coming next. He made quick work of Sherlock's trousers, smiling when he realized that he wasn't wearing any pants. Taking his cock, he pumped gently, just once. Sherlock's back arched, reveling in the sensation. John slid down to lean in and swirl his tongue around his head.

"Stop," Sherlock said breathily. John looked up concerned, sitting up completely. He felt guilty, afraid he had pushed too hard.

"No, not like that," Sherlock explained, "it's too quick. Not yet."

John smiled, relieved, and peppered kisses up his torso. He found his way slowly back to his mouth, kissing him slowly. He nipped and sucked, straddling his hips. Sherlock sat up slowly so John was sitting on his lap, legs wrapped around. Sherlock captured John's nipple in his mouth, biting down a little too hard.

"Ouch," John exclaimed, then gasped as he licked gently, swirling his tongue around the nub.

Sherlock smiled against his chest. He lowered John down, working his way down his body slowly, nibbling and kissing, cataloguing every reaction. Bringing his hand up to John's cock, he worked it up and down slowly.

"Oh, God yes," John said breathily. Sherlock fit himself between his legs, placing small sucking kisses up his length. Sherlock's eyes found John, watching for his reactions. This time would be about John, Sherlock was determined to show him how much he was loved and desired.

As Sherlock drew him deep into his mouth, John's hips bucked up involuntarily. Sherlock brought his hand up, gently rubbing circles against his hip while keeping him in place. John's breath came faster and faster as Sherlock hollowed his cheeks moving up and down.

"I- I- " John panted, his brain completely unable to form a complete sentence. Sherlock understood completely and sped up. John cried out, Sherlock's name on his lips as he came suddenly, Sherlock swallowing every last drop. He stayed there, memorizing the sight of a sated John, kissing along the line of John's hip coaxing him down from his orgasm. Eventually John pulled him up, sucking gently on Sherlock's lower lip, tasting himself in addition to the wonderful taste of pure Sherlock. John flipped them gently, straddling him. He brushed Sherlock's dark curls off his forehead gently.

"I love you," he admitted tentatively, unsure of Sherlock's response. He broke out in a grin – one of the rare true grins he seemed to reserve for John alone.

"I love you more than you can even imagine." Sherlock pulled him down by the back of his neck, kissing him as if they had all the time in the world. John peppered kisses along Sherlock's jawline, his cheekbones, his nose and his eyelids before pressing one last kiss on his lips. He worked his way down, whispering adorations while sucking on his neck then licking a path down his chest. John cupped Sherlock's balls, rolling them in his hand while stroking his fingers loosely around Sherlock's erection, applying a little pressure from his thumb on the upstroke.

"Oh my God, please don't stop."

John smiled against Sherlock's stomach at the exclamation. He kissed gently along the jut of his hipbone and down the crease of his hip, pressing his mouth anywhere but his cock. Sherlock jerked as John licked up one thigh and down the other.

"Please…" He whined as John blew cool air, making him quiver.

John finally licked up his length and took him into his mouth, moving slowly, tongue flicking at his frenulum. Sherlock felt the slow burn of his orgasm approaching.

"Please, more," he begged, and John obliged gladly. He moved faster and faster, adding his hand in time with his mouth. Sherlock fisted both hands in the sheet, holding on as he came closer and closer to the edge. He let out a breathy moan of "John", his legs wrapping around John strongly as he felt the spasm of his orgasm, shuddering as he rode the wave. As he collapsed, completely exhausted, John moved up to press a kiss to his temple.

"Are you alright there, love?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled contentedly, wrapping his arms around John. Their legs tangled as he tucked himself along Sherlock's side. "More than alright," he admitted sleepily.

As Sherlock's eyes started to close, John realized that he was happy. Not the glamorized can't-keep-a-smile-off-your-face happy, but rather a quiet happy. John's heart lifted at the realization, feeling lighter than he had in months. He knew he wasn't completely healed yet, and he didn't know how long it would last, but he knew that as long as Sherlock was by his side, he would be able to get through it. John drifted off, looking forward to being whole again.

* * *

One month later.

John followed Sherlock into the abandoned house, nodding a hello to the officer stationed at the door. Lestrade stood in the front room, speaking quietly to another detective, someone John didn't recognize. Looking up at the pair, Lestrade smiled, but John saw apprehension in his face. It was his first crime scene since before Sherlock's death and John knew everyone was nervous about how he would react. He was just hoping he could slide back into his role as Sherlock's catalyst.

Sherlock had been hesitant about taking this case, but Lestrade had practically begged. He had been taking smaller cases, but nothing big, stating that he needed to be there for John. In addition to Lestrade's pleas, John had practically pushed him out the door, telling Sherlock that they both needed to get out of the flat. If he were being honest, John wasn't sure he _was_ ready, but he knew that he might never be ready until he pushed himself. The last month had been one of rebuilding- his emotional health, his job, his friendship and new relationship with Sherlock.

John stood in the doorway to the bedroom, where the body was located. As he surveyed the small room, his chest tightened. He had thought he would be fine, but the sheer amount of blood had only served to remind him of things he had done his best to forget. John tried to appear normal while fighting to breathe and backed slowly out of the room, making quietly for the door. He fought down the hysteria that bubbled up inside, stamping down the voice in his head that cried _run!_

Sherlock found John outside, practicing the deep breathing technique he had learned while in therapy.

"Too much?" he asked quietly, sitting next to John on the kerb. John put his head in his hands, embarrassed by his inability to handle the scene that once would never have created such panic.

"I'll be fine," he said, exhaling slowly, "I just need a moment."

Sherlock put an arm around John's shoulders, drawing him into a hug. John leaned into the embrace and breathed deeply, Sherlock's unique scent blocking out the sharp smell of blood. They sat quietly like that for a few minutes, until John sat up, breaking out of Sherlock's hold.

"I'm alright," John whispered, "Let's go back inside."

Sherlock stood up first, offering his hand to John, pulling him to his feet. Sherlock kept John's hand in his, entwining their fingers together and leading him back to the crime scene. John actually enjoyed the look of shock on Lestrade's face as the two men entered the room. Sherlock only pulled John closer, examining the blood splatter on the wall.

Lestrade put a hand on John's shoulder. "What's going on?" he asked, eyebrows raised, "I mean…" He gestured with one hand at both John and Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him, annoyance written on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off before he said something they both would regret.

"Exactly what you think it is," John replied, a small smile on his face. Even though he and Sherlock had not discussed what they were going to do about publically announcing their change in relationship, he wasn't going to shy away from it.

Lestrade looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "I'm glad for you, John. You both deserve it."

They finished going over the crime scene, Sherlock managing to insult only two officers, and gave a few deductions. Declaring loudly that they needed more information from the dead man's cousin, he swept out, towing John behind him.

They said nothing to each other throughout the taxi ride back to their flat, however John felt Sherlock's uneasiness through his inability to keep his hand still as it wound its way around John's. His first finger tattooed patterns on John's palms, his thumb ran its way down John's first finger and his fingers threaded through John's own. He seemed unable to keep still. Stopping at 221 Baker Street, Sherlock threw money at the cabbie and followed John up the stairs.

"Are you alright?" he asked, joining John on the couch.

"Yeah, I'm fine now. It just took me by surprise."

"John, if you rather not-"

"No, Sherlock," he interrupted, "Yes, I was unprepared this time, but I need to get back out there. I need to get back out into the world. I need all the parts- the good and the bad. You have given me an awful lot of good, but I'm going to have to get used to dealing with the bad, too. I just need- hell, I don't know, but I _don't _need time."

Sherlock paused a moment before replying, "What do you need from me?"

John smiled, bringing a hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek, drawing him down for a single, chaste, kiss. "I need you to just be you. We've come a long way, and we will continue to keep going. There will be setbacks, like today, but we will get through them, together."

"Together," Sherlock said softly, "I like the sound of that."


End file.
